


reruns all become our history

by andbless_mybaby



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-08
Updated: 2010-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 11:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andbless_mybaby/pseuds/andbless_mybaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"How about you come over here, instead?" He sticks his hand out, in no way believing that she'll fall for this set-up twice.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	reruns all become our history

**Author's Note:**

> Written after a ridiculous delay -dead laptop and a busy month in my fandom involvement- for my darlingest [](http://becca-radcgg.livejournal.com/profile)[**becca_radcgg**](http://becca-radcgg.livejournal.com/), who requested Tony Stark, a Sharpie, a webcam, and a mistake. Oh – and also first-time sex (OKAY, I FUDGED THAT ONE) and the full-steam return of the angst train. I hope it was worth the wait, babe.

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[fic: glee](http://andbless-mybaby.livejournal.com/tag/fic:%20glee), [pairing: puck/rachel](http://andbless-mybaby.livejournal.com/tag/pairing:%20puck/rachel), [rating: nc-17](http://andbless-mybaby.livejournal.com/tag/rating:%20nc-17)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** reruns all become our history  
**Author:** [](http://andbless-mybaby.livejournal.com/profile)[**andbless_mybaby**](http://andbless-mybaby.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing:** Puck/Rachel, past Puck/Quinn mentioned  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Spoilers:** Through "Sectionals" (1.13)  
**Summary:** _"How about you come over here, instead?" He sticks his hand out, in no way believing that she'll fall for this set-up twice._

_Rachel frowns a little, although she does get up and stand near his knees._

_"If I join you on that bed, Noah, it's highly unlikely that we are going to be doing much practicing."_  
**Word Count:** 6,900

**Author's Notes:** Written after a ridiculous delay -dead laptop and a busy month in my fandom involvement- for my darlingest [](http://becca-radcgg.livejournal.com/profile)[**becca_radcgg**](http://becca-radcgg.livejournal.com/), who requested Tony Stark, a Sharpie, a webcam, and a mistake. Oh – and also first-time sex (OKAY, I FUDGED THAT ONE) and the full-steam return of the angst train. I hope it was worth the wait, babe.

**Warning:** I'd normally dislike spoiling my own story, but I think it's only fair to mention that (non-explicit) miscarriage is a plot point in this one. I'd be mad at myself if I inadvertently made anyone upset.

At first, it seemed like Schu dating the guidance counselor lady was going to be pretty okay. Schuester became marginally less of a hardass about minor shit like pluperfect verbs and not showing up to Geo for three solid weeks, and Puck thinks he saw Ms. Pillsbury with the top button of her virginal ruffled blouse unbuttoned the other day – they are totally having hot teacher sex; it's a complete fact. Except that February rolls around, and Schuester _doesn't_ shoot down Tina's gay-o suggestion that they all sing love songs for Valentine's Day.

"I think that's a great idea!" Schuester's eyes get big and shiny. "There's definitely something to be said for learning to sing a great love song and putting _feeling_ into it. That'll be your assignment for this week, guys."

"We should probably work, like, with a partner." Brittany's fired up her two brain cells for this one, obviously. "Because you can't practice love on yourself. Right?"

Chang sniggers, and Rutherford mumbles something about _practicing love on a picture of yo' momma_. If Schu hears it through the haze of the love kool-aid he's been drinking, he doesn't give any indication.

Schuester makes the mistake of allowing the kids to choose their own partners, and for a few moments it's like seventh-grade dodgeball all over again. Tina and Artie pick each other, like that wasn't totally going to happen. Mercedes and Kurt are vibing on their homo/fag hag wavelength as usual. Santana and Brittany exchange what Puck (wistfully) imagines to be a meaningful, lust-filled look before pairing off with Matt and Mike. And then there is a moment in which Puck thanks the dude upstairs for giving him mad intuition, because Finn has eyeballed Rachel and Quinn with something that looks like panic, and Puck just knows Finn is about to open his stupid mouth.

"I'll take Rachel," Puck says in a hurry (and yet totally casually, because _come on_).

It's actually the first time he's looked at Rachel since practice started. She is balancing a notebook on her knees, obviously making a list of every power ballad ever sung by Celine _ever_, but she's paused with her purple fine-point Sharpie hanging in mid-air. Her eyes bounce between Finn, Puck, and Quinn like the game ball in a Chinese ping pong championship, and it's clear that she's missed _nothing_ about what's just gone on. She opens her mouth and closes it, like she was on the verge of saying something and decided against it.

Quinn has a pale, sucker-punched look on her face. Finn just looks pissed, but Puck is so used to that now that it barely registers. The room is quiet. Even Schu looks troubled, like it's finally sunken into his head that maybe this wasn't the best idea ever. A nasty part of Puck waits eagerly for a meltdown, but it doesn't happen. Kurt just quietly and gracefully announces that he'll be Quinn's partner, and Mercedes says _looks like you're stuck with me, big boy_ to Finn.

Brittany, oblivious as ever, takes the tense moment to announce that she'll make some cupcakes.

It takes everyone a few seconds after that to start buzzing again, like they're all disappointed that a big blowout didn't actually happen. Puck shakes his head and goes back to checking out the "na na na na-na na na" section of _Hey Jude_, one of the contenders for their Regionals group performance.

_

  
At Rachel's house, her gay dads greet him with that back-slapping _hey, pal_ thing that Puck can't stand. Given the top two reactions he tends to get from chicks' fathers, he greatly prefers the suspicious looks. But the Berry padres don't roll that way. Puck guesses that they are totally of the cool and permissive school of parenting (a philosophy that is always wasted on kids like Rachel, who never take advantage of it), and is vindicated when nobody makes a peep about Rachel taking him up to her bedroom and _shutting the door_.

"How do they know that we aren't up here totally getting our freak on?" he asks her, bemused.

Rachel gives him a withering glance.

"First of all, they actually trust me," she informs him. "And secondly, my fathers are not unrealistic about the budding sexual interest of teenagers. They've equipped me with knowledge and contraceptives, so that I neither contract a sexually transmitted infection or get…"

And Puck's never had the chance to actually hear Rachel bring herself to a dead halt, but just then, he does.

"You can say 'pregnant,'" he tells her coolly. "It's not some evil word that's going to offend me."

"Yes. Well." Rachel busies herself with disgorging her gigantic backpack, textbooks with neat paper covers and a fat five-subject notebook all lined up carefully on her desktop. Sitting on her bed, Puck gets bored watching her homework prep – he never looks at his school books, but does he actually have _that many?_ – and flops backwards, so that his upper body is laying sideways across her frilly white comforter and his legs and hanging down onto the floor. He can't see her face.

"Sorry if, like, you had completely planned on pairing up with Finn." He says it to the ceiling. "But that was crisis mode, you know?"

"I'm neither dumb nor blind, Noah. I figured that out." She drops onto her desk chair, and turns it so that she's facing his head. "I'm pleased to have been your last resort."

"Fuck, Berry." He can feel her glaring at him for the profanity, and he rolls his eyes. "Shit. I mean- ugh, don't pull that. You know that's not what I meant."

The way that she twists her ankle around the bottom of the chair, avoiding the issue, tells him that maybe she didn't. She's wearing knit tights under her skirt, and the shape of her toes curls into the carpet. (Rachel has kind of awesome legs, but he's not focused on that at the moment.)

"This assignment blows," he tells her, to change the topic. "I might rock some Rise Against."

"Rise against what?" she says blankly.

"Don't hurt yourself," he mutters.

"I was thinking of _It's Oh So Quiet_," she says seriously. "I really think that this love song assignment lends itself well to the classics. My first choice was _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face_, but I think that's relatively mature for my young age, don't you think? I wanted something a little more up-tempo. Of course, there's no accounting for what everyone else will do, and it's likely that it'll seem dated anyway. Do you want to hear both of them, and then you can give me your opinion?"

(He so does not. But then he has an awesome idea. Puck doesn't really know how to hang out with girls in a way that involves anything other than screwing around, and he definitely remembers how to shut Rachel up.)

"How about you come over here, instead?" He sticks his hand out, not totally confident that she'll fall for this set-up twice.

Rachel frowns a little, although she does get up and stand near his knees.

"If I join you on that bed, Noah, it's highly unlikely that we are going to be doing much practicing."

That's not a no, he thinks. Surprised, pleased, and maybe starting to get a little hot on the thought of possibly getting those tights down her awesome legs. He fixes her with a smoldering look, the kind that normally has hot woman all over his zipper with their teeth.

"We have all afternoon," he says, dropping his voice an octave. "Too much work and no play sucks, Rach."

"I thought that you didn't want to date me," she responds, confused.

Puck barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes, knowing it would be a dick move and that he'd kill what he now considers to be a pretty good chance of getting her horizontal – what, he goes to Geo _sometimes_ – in the next two minutes.

"We don't have to be dating to make out, baby." He motions with his hand, still hanging in the air. "We're supposed to be practicing our love skills, remember? It's like we're costars in a chick flick. We're _rehearsing_."

It's so ridiculous that he's banking on at least making her laugh, which she does. It also turns out to be a more compelling argument than he'd banked upon. Rachel climbs up on the bed and straddles his hips (hello, boner), bracing her hands on his chest for balance. Puck holds her wrists lightly.

"So, I'm not the worst partner in the whole universe?"

"No," she says.

"C'mere," he murmurs.

He likes the way that Rachel's hair falls around their faces when she leans down to kiss him, and he likes the little gasp she makes when he kisses her back a lot harder. The sound is sexy, and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue over her bottom lip until she opens her mouth.

They make out for at least forty-five minutes, until Puck tries to sneakily and subtly grind her ass against his hard-on. Just a little. Rachel pushes up and glares at him, looking fuckable as hell with her messy hair and kiss-swollen, shiny (since he'd just been licking them) lips. Also mad and kind of amused.

"That's enough, Noah. I think it's way past time to get to work."

He questions whether it was worth it once she sits him down and makes him listen to _It's Oh So Quiet_, which he tells her makes her sound and look spastic. And when she's done sulking, she doesn't take the time to listen to his bitchin' version of _The Good Left Undone_ – which is really a shame, because Puck's thinking it's going to be a grade-A panty-dropper.

_

  
A few days later he happens to see Rachel getting something out of her locker when he's on his way out to the field house to check out the newest issue of Hustler instead of eating lunch with the dipshits in the cafeteria. He stuffs the magazine in his backpack as he approaches, since he'd rather not get a lecture on the objectification of women, and hangs over the locker door.

"Qué pasa, Berry?"

"Your pronunciation isn't terrible," she comments as she selects a folder from inside. She's got them color-coded, like _what the hell?_ "If you practiced, you could probably pass Spanish I and not have to repeat for a second time next year."

"Why would I want to do that?" He smirks at her earnest smile. "I'm a goodwill ambassador to the freshman girls."

"You're incorrigible."

"I don't know what that means, but I bet you like it."

He pats her on the ass. Rachel swings around, appalled, but the blush on her face tells him that she didn't mind all that much. Puck throws down a peace sign, and continues on his way.

It's possible that he spent half a second too long scoping Rachel's rear profile, because when he turns back around he almost collides with Quinn. It's not hard. She's, like, twice the size she was before.

"Watch where you're going!" she hisses.

Puck's gut churns like he's just eaten one of the jalapeño cream cheese taquitos at 7-Eleven (you stick to the chicken or carne asada beef; it's just a known fact).

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Quinn follows the line of his sight up the hall where Rachel is shutting her locker. Quinn doesn't scowl, but the trace of a frown on her face says enough.

"There must be something in the water," she mutters.

"We're working together on the Glee thing," he says, by way of explanation.

"Yeah." She looks at him like he's a moron, and what she really wants to say is, _how could I forget, jackass? _ "I know."

"How, uh, have you been feeling?" He rakes a hand over his head awkwardly.

"Like crap." Quinn shifts her books irritably. "I'm as fat as a cow, in case you didn't notice. My hips and back are killing me. Doctor says my blood pressure has been high, and my head is always hurting."

Puck is, at that moment, pretty grateful that dudes can't get knocked up. He tries not to stare at Quinn, at her huge belly where her daughter – his daughter – is growing. It's so weird.

"How far along are you, now?"

"Six months next week," she says shortly.

"If you ever need someone to, like, take you to the doctor's…"

"…I'd have Brittany's sister do it," Quinn finishes.

"You're staying with Britt now?" It's news to him.

"Well, I'm not shacking up with the Hudsons; that's for sure. My other option was an extra-large cardboard box."

That's fair, but Puck doesn't know how to answer it. He keeps both hands on the strap of his backpack, like he's going to do something brain dead like touch her humongous belly, or something, and he needs to physically restrain himself. It's strange to him, since Puck lives in a black and white world filled with _chicks I'd bang_ and _chicks to leave alone_. Quinn fits neatly in neither one, existing somewhere between. It makes him uncomfortable.

"You should get to class," he blurts.

Quinn gives him a strange look.

"And you shouldn't?" she replies.

"Nah." Puck flashes her a smile – a normal one, not the kind that implies anything dirty (the kind right for pregnant girls). "I've got things to do."

_

  
One of the things he has to do after school that same day is hook up with Rachel again. She's picked her song, finally. She went with the first one? Maybe? (It could have been something entirely new, honestly. Puck didn't pay a lot of attention.)

They get frisky on the couch in her living room, not making it upstairs since it's Wednesday and her dads do pro bono (Puck said _pro bone_r three or four times before Rachel made him stop) work at the Jewish Law Center. She's dressed for her dance class that evening, but Puck pulled her long hair out of its ponytail pretty much as soon as they started kissing. They're going at it pretty good when Rachel pauses to shrug off her sweater – the action gets her hot and bothered in the literal sense, it seems – and Puck sees a perfect opportunity to spread her horizontal on the couch and to slide a hand over her breast.

"Over my shirt…!" she whispers, but that's okay. Puck has made out with enough virgins to have learned all the back door ins to second base.

She's wearing a thin top, so it's easy enough to push her bra up and out of the way underneath it. Rachel's got small boobs, barely a handful for Puck when he fingers her nipples roughly through the cloth. They stiffen up, and Rachel sucks in a strangled breath, and Puck laughs a little (triumphant), and lowers his head to suck the hard little peaks. There's a mouthful of damp cotton around them, so he bites a little, and makes Rachel tilt her head back and whine.

He spider-walks his fingers down the thigh of her sweatpants, which are the cute and tight kind that chicks wear to be comfortable, and not the ball-huggers that Tanaka wears in the winter with the elastic ankles. If he splays his fingers, he can graze the juncture of her legs with his thumb and feel how fucking _hot_ she is, warmth seeping through her clothes. (He bets that she's wet, too, judging from the breathy noises she's making as he licks her cleavage.)

Rachel's white shirt is transparent at the wet spots from his mouth, the pinkish blush of her nipples swelling under the cloth. His tongue stings, feels dry and rug-burnt from sucking on her shirt. So he kisses her roughly, sliding against her tongue to sooth his own. Tangling his fingers in her silky hair, he combs it with his fingers down in furrows over her shoulders and pulls a little until he swallows the harsh-smooth whimper that wells in her throat. She's totally digging it, so he sneaks up under her wrecked top to get a hand on her bare breast while she's kissing him. Rachel's eyes crinkle a little, but she doesn't protest this time. _Success. _

Puck knows when he's pushing the limits, through, and he doesn't try to go any further. He just feels her up while they're kissing, wedging a knee between her thighs to feel her heat seep through his jeans and also so that she can't feel the massive wood he's sporting. There's ways to trick virgins, but showing them the goods too soon is always a bad idea. (He'd know.)

_

That night, Puck's watching _Iron Man_ for maybe the fifth or sixth time – because Tony Stark is a badass HBIC who nails the chicks, wears an awesome metal costume, and blows shit up, _like what_ – when the phone rings. That confuses him, because who actually picks up the phone at one in the morning? The caller ID says Rachel, and it suddenly all makes sense to him: okay, she was laying in bed trying to sleep after finishing her homework, thinking of him and coming to the conclusion that she can't live without his cock in her life. (And maybe her mouth, he thinks. Because that's definitely going to be the toll if she expects an in-house booty call on a Wednesday night, not-scaring-virgins policy be damned.)

He answers the phone _ 'sup, babe?,_ expecting to slay Rachel with the brute force of his husky sex voice.

But really happens is this: a long silence, and then Rachel (who sounds like she'd been crying) saying – _I thought you should know, I just found out, I'm so sorry, Quinn lost the baby. _

_

  
It had never occurred to Puck that you could have a funeral for someone who never even made it to being a real person.

The ceremony is kind of half-assed, just New Directions and a few of their parents and a little, tiny box that Kurt consigned one of his treasured Dsquared2 cardigans to buy. He and Brittany are each holding one of Quinn's hands, since the Fabrays didn't show up (of course). Santana is blinking rapidly in the cold air at what has to be the novel sensation of having tears in her eyes, and Finn is standing back a few steps behind everyone, his lips curled in on themselves and eyes downcast with a sorrowful look that somehow has more behind it than Puck cares to figure out. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury pat him on the back, but Puck doesn't feel anything, really. His black jacket is too short in the sleeves and tight enough that it won't button, since he didn't have anything right to wear to a funeral and only Mike had an extra. He wishes he was one of the chicks, who are mostly wearing black sunglasses. Puck isn't going to cry like a bitch for the child that he never met and didn't really want, but he doesn't want anyone really looking at his face.

Rachel comes up to sing. She's wearing a long coat, with mittens on since it's completely freezing. It takes her a few seconds to get started, like there's something in her throat. It's a sad song, though Puck doesn't listen closely enough to tell if there's actually anything about dead babies in it.

The February wind blows up under Puck's collar and down his neck. And suddenly, fiercely, he's so fucking pissed off at everyone. Pissed at Quinn, who was never going to let him have a crack at being a dad to that kid. Pissed at Finn for being a big, stupid douchebag, pissed at himself for fucking Quinn without a rubber when she tasted like Seagram's Wild Berry and everything in life he could never have. Pissed at his mom for sniffling like she knows jack shit about anything (tears falling down her face like from a faucet), and at Schu and Miss Pillsbury for looking at him with that retarded look of sympathy on their faces. At everyone, for watching solemnly like this is some kind of goddamn show.

He looks at Rachel, eyes closed as she tries not to cry singing her sad song, and he hates her in a way that he never really did when he was throwing slushies in her face. (She probably is totally getting off on this, the perfect little scene for her gorgeous _performance._)

Afterwards, the pastor from Quinn's church says a few words, and Puck slips away while everyone's got their heads lowered listening to that bullshit about the _valley of the shadow of death._ He honestly has no clue why he maybe even thought showing up was a good idea.

_

  
Rachel follows him inside his house. He doesn't have the energy to stop her. She gave him a ride home, since his mom had to go straight to work and nobody else offered. Without acknowledging her, he goes up to his room. She goes with him.

He strips off Mike's ridiculous midget jacket, and lets his slacks puddle on the floor. If he's giving her too much of a show, screw her and let her leave. But Rachel doesn't stare and doesn't avoid his eyes either. He yanks on the tie around his neck, gets it off and throws it over his computer keyboard on the desk. Feeling the weight of her gaze on him, he undoes the buttons on his shirt. There are so many, it's just ridiculous. Puck pulls at the bottom half, probably popping the last two. He still can't fucking get it _off_. He rips at it ineffectively.

"It's your wrists," Rachel says quietly.

"Fucking _what?_"

"Wrists. The sleeves have- never mind, I'll do it." She takes a hesitant step towards him, and Puck just watches. Rachel grabs his arm with cold hands, and releases the last two little buttons holding the cuffs together, which has to be the stupidest place for buttons ever. She doesn't let go of his wrist. For a few moments they just stand there. And then she looks at him with welling eyes and throws her arms around him.

Puck is numb. He has it virtually on his tongue to say _I don't need this shit, get off me_. But he knows it will make her cry, and he doesn't think he can handle seeing that right now. Unlike her hands, Rachel's cheek is hot where it's pressed against his chest. Her arms are tight around him, and he's swaying a bit on his feet, so he backs up and sits down on the edge of his bed. Rachel crawls onto his lap like a child, arms 'round his neck and knees pressed around his hips.

There's the bite of cold in the fuzzy wool of her floppy knit hat and the winter chill has frozen the buttons on her coat into little ice chips against his skin. The toe of her suede boot is digging into his calf, and she's just wearing too many fucking clothes. The hat, the coat, the boots, the scarf – they all end up on his floor. Rachel lets him strip off her outerwear, and he avoids her eyes. He gets his hands up under her sweater, knowing she won't say no. Her skin is smooth and warm, shivering under his fingers when he traces a nail beneath the underwire of her bra. There's a dull weight in his chest when he kisses her, like something's busted and malfunctioning on the inside.

_ (Quinn had been drunk, all sloppy kisses up the side of his neck on a Friday night. It was one of the last weekends of the summer, and everyone cool in their class had been over. In Quinn's huge backyard they'd partied until curfews and carpools had started to draw people away, and at three a.m. there was only Puck to help Quinn gather red plastic cups from the grass._

_"You're so going to need to work your magic on that hot tub," she'd giggled. Q had never been great with her booze._

_"I don't work for free," he'd said. He didn't mean it that way, but Quinn's face was suddenly very close to his and she was gripping his shoulders to steady herself._

_"I liked those drinks you brought me," she'd murmured._

_"You said you didn't like beer, so I thought you'd like the wine coolers." Puck, with his fake ID, took pride in introducing his friends to the wonders of alcohol. "It wasn't a big deal."_

_"They made me feel good," she said. "You want me to make you feel good?"_

__Quinn_, he'd gasped. _Fuck_. It was so hot and so dark, with nothing but the swirling light underwater in the hot tub throwing shadows all around. Cicadas hummed in the trees overhead, a deafening buzz when her mouth met his.) _

When did he get Rachel naked? He's almost mad at himself (there's a dim thought in his head that says he should have enjoyed getting a chick as prudish as Berry to strip for him), but she's on his bed in her bra and underwear, hair staticky on his pillow, shivering lightly and reaching for him above her. Her knees are open, legs wide across the mattress, and she doesn't protest when he cups his hand between her legs to touch her. She's still pretty dry, which means _sympathy fuck_, and something inside him is really fucking appalled at the thought of a girl like Rachel doing this like it's a favor to him. But she trembles when his thumb ghosts over her clit, and he sighs, and kisses her slow and dirty to get her going.

When she's silently begging for it, her hips lifting and her nails digging into his biceps, he pushes aside her underwear. She's plenty wet now, so he sinks a finger into her slippery heat. Inside she's so insanely tight that he almost loses his shit, thinking dizzily of opening her up inch by inch with his cock. Rachel makes a soft, anguished noise when he pumps into her a little too hard. It's been a long time (six months next week) since he's finger-fucked a virgin, and he has to remind himself to be gentle.

He inches down her body, dropping apologetic kisses on her breasts – which taste even better uncovered – and hips. Nobody else has ever done this, nobody's ever spread Rachel wide and eaten her out to make her moan and twist on the bed. Puck does it carefully, deliberately, teasing her with broad strokes of his tongue against her hot, pink cunt.

"Noah," she pants. "God. _N-Noah._" Her gasp makes a hook around his name and doesn't quite catch it the first time.

"I know," he murmurs. Even though he really doesn't know anything. "I know."

Her hand comes down suddenly, grabbing at his face like she doesn't know whether to shove him closer or push him away. Puck lets his thumb do the walking for a bit, and licks a sloppy kiss onto Rachel's palm. Her fingers clench, and he sucks them into his mouth one by one, scraping his teeth over her knuckles. Rachel pants like a marathon runner, makes a fist, bucks hard against his wrist.

This is normally the point where he'd be talking _filthy_; hot, nasty words always brought the girl over the edge.

_You like fucking my hand, baby? So tight, so-fucking-tight. Want my cock, baby? Beg me for it. Want me to fill you up, open you wide, make you scream-_

But there are no words inside Puck tonight, obscene or otherwise. Some part of him is worried that Rachel can tell, like he's being too quiet and it's all wrong. So he pushes himself up and sucks on her neck so he doesn't have to meet her eyes. His teeth scrape her pulse point, and she moans and bucks and stiffens up all over and comes on his hand. He realizes that he's painfully aroused like it's an afterthought, like his shit isn't already hard enough to be leaking on his belly beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs.

"I want you, Noah." Her breath paints his ear, her body loose and hot wrapped around his. Rachel's sex grinds wetly on his shaft like she wants to ride him right through the cloth. A tortured groan wrenches itself from his throat.

"You don't know what that means," he tells her.

(_ "Do it, Puck." Quinn's hair was damp honey spilling over her pillow, sweat and chlorine on the sheets."C'mon. Isn't this what you like? Show me. _")

"Inside me," she says. And he's aching, and thrusting into her hot little hand pressed against his fly. She unbuttons him, and uses her fingers to show him where she wants him. It's normally not a command that he'd be able to refuse – fuck, that's normally not a command he'd be able to _process_ – except that Rachel's a virgin and there's no latex in sight. And Puck might not be a total brainiac, but he'll be damned if he doesn't learn from his mistakes. Plus this whole thing tonight is kind of fucked up on a mental level, and he's not sure who's taking advantage of who here.

"No, baby." He groans in frustration, twisting his hips away so that she can't go and do anything crazy with his dick in her hand. "That is so, so not a good idea. Trust me."

Rachel's gears are turning, it's like he can almost hear them.

"Then let me do this," she says. Puck's brain is so fried that he doesn't realize what _this_ is until she's between his knees, stroking him inexpertly but confidently. The way she's sitting gives him reasonable confidence that she's going to listen to him and not go for the kamikaze cowgirl method of devirginization (as amazingly fucking hot as that thought is), so he lets his head drop back and just _feels_ her small, soft hand jerking him. Her grip's too careful and not firm enough to get a good rhythm, but he's already so hot from getting her off that he responds instantly. She's a quick study with that big brain of hers, and she pays attention when he moans at her palm sliding over his cockhead.

_Yeah, like that_ he encourages her. _There, shit._

Puck is already starting to think that he isn't going to last long, and then she uses her mouth on him. An electric jolt flares in the base of his spine and he inhales sharply. There's a little too much of Rachel's teeth in the slow, tight descent of her mouth down his cock, but it's okay (Puck kind of likes the hurt a little). Her tongue flicks across the top, over his ultra-sensitive slit, and he swears he's going to make them both fall off the bed. He grabs her shoulders, just to steady her, and gets a really good look at his dick stretching her lips, the subtle curve of it through her cheek…

"Fuck, _fuck_," he moans. "Your mouth is-"

He was going to say _so fucking hot, oh my god_, but it ends up clenched behind his teeth when he comes without any further warning. Rachel takes it like a champ. She doesn't gag or make a face or anything, just lets him finish in her mouth. It's like she doesn't know when he's done – Puck pats her on the head awkwardly – but then she just gets up and spits discretely into a Kleenex from the box he has on his bedside table. (For when he's spanking it, and how glad is he that this is not one of the times when the box sits empty for like two weeks because he's too lazy to go get some more from the hall closet?)

Rachel's a cuddler, like such a total chick. Puck knows this, so it shouldn't surprise him when he flops back on the bed to catch his breath and she insinuates herself between his arm and the side of his body with her head on his shoulder. He's not so much for having a body all curled up on him like a cat when he's trying to cool down after a round in the sack, but Rachel doesn't say anything and doesn't immediately start looking for a lifetime declaration of love. That makes her automatically cooler than 99% of girls their age that he's gotten freaky with. Her fingers are tracing little nonsense patterns on his pecs, curving around his nipple ring like she doesn't know what to do with it. (One day, he thinks, he'll tell her to pull it. With her teeth. And he'll find out just how kinky Rachel Berry actually is – he's betting a lot – but it won't be tonight.)

"I should really go," she says. "It's getting late."

"Yeah," he says noncommittally, even though there is a weird, unexpected impulse on his tongue to tell her _stay._

(It's already starting to feel like a mistake.)

_

Valentine's Day is that Sunday, and Puck doesn't do anything. Doesn't level his Mafia Wars character (puckUbitchezz) on Facebook, doesn't try to cajole Santana into web cam strip Minesweeper - he made that one up himself over the summer; it's made it to Urban Dictionary – doesn't even go drive around so all the Lima dumbasses can check out how cool he is. The only active thing he does is focus on _not_ thinking – not about being once-upon-a-fucking-time sprung on Quinn and estranged from his best friend, pissed at the world and deep in some shit with Rachel that makes no sense and he can't figure out. Not about being relieved/angry/hurting over the dead thing that was going to be a baby girl, and not the things he calls himself in his head when he's _not_ thinking about it all.

Rachel texts him around noon; he doesn't read it. He ignores the one that comes in at one forty-five, too.

And the one at five.

And the one at seven twenty.

He accidentally sees the one from eight seventeen, because he had gone to nuke some Bagel Bites and the damn phone was squawking a reminder at him. He whacks a bunch of buttons to shut it up, and catches the word _please_, and a sad emoticon. He doesn't know what she's begging him for; doesn't want to know.

Fuck love, seriously. Fuck Cupid, and Valentine's Day, and the whole fucking thing.

Puck turns off his phone and falls asleep. Doesn't wake up until his alarm blasts him out of bed the next morning.

_

  
Schuester calls a special meeting after school Monday for them all to do their performances. It's enough to make Puck want to fucking die, but he goes anyway. Everyone looks surprised to see him. Quinn is having her school work brought home for a few days, so she isn't there. The mood in the room is pretty fucking grim, and not at all like the Loveapalooza Schuester had planned. Brittany's cupcakes are pale pink and blobby, with _x_ and _o_ sprinkles heaped on top. They taste like Britt maybe put way too much sugar in them, but Puck eats two anyway and gets an immediate stomach ache. (She's a cool chick. He knows it'll make her happy, since nobody else touches them.)

He doesn't pay much attention to Tina and Artie, who didn't follow the rules and did a duet. Matt's not used to the solo shit _at all_, and completely wobbles his way through _I Don't Want to Miss a Thing_. (Puck sees Mike trying to be secretive about recording it on his phone, and he foresees the terrible performance totally making its way to YouTube.) Mike does Usher's _Nice and Slow_, which makes Mr. Schue frown and turn kind of red, but Chang is as usual a smooth motherfucker and destroys that shit Marvin Gaye-style. Schuester covers his eyes and laughs when Mike slides across the floor on his knees to sing _I-I wanna do somethin' freaky to you, babe_ to Santana, Britt, and Mercedes.

Puck is sitting next to his boys, so it's not really a surprise when Schuester asks him next what he's prepared.

"Pass," Puck says flatly.

Nobody argues with him.

Of course, Rachel goes all in. She's wearing a pink and red sweater, striped like the inside of a candy box. She's wearing jeans instead of a skirt for once in her life, and Puck can't help but wonder idly if she's still sore from him fingering her.

"There seems to have not been a consensus on the specific type of love songs we'd be performing," she says steadily, facing the room. "With that in mind, I prepared something a little different for you guys today. It's by the critically acclaimed 90s band, Third Eye Blind."

Puck stares at the floor, trying not to hurl on the cloying taste of buttercream and listening to Rachel's version of _Deep Inside of You._ He happens to look up, and has to wonder if she's been looking at him the whole time. She holds his gaze when she sings:

_And I don't want to call you  
But then I want to call you  
'Cause I don't want to crush you  
But I feel like crushing you  
And it's true, I took for granted you were with me  
I breathe by your looks and you look right through me_

(It's like a game of visual chicken, and Puck drops his eyes first.)

She has barely finished the last note, drawing it out carefully and letting it hang in the air, before Schu jumps up to applaud. The whole room joins him. It's an objective fact that Rachel's love song was killer – even for her – and that there was _exactly_ the right amount of feeling in it.

_

  
On the way home from school, Puck passes a street vendor selling flowers from 10-gallon buckets on the sidewalk. According to a cardboard sign, everything is half off on account of it being the fifteenth.

He jerks his truck off the road into the next driveway, not knowing what the fuck has gotten into him. And then spends the next five minutes poking through the bouquets for two that don't look totally sad and droopy (like real Valentine's Day reject flowers). The dude wants ten bucks for the pink roses; Puck jews him down to fifteen for the pair.

The plastic wrap around the flowers is printed with a white lace pattern and tied off with a rubber band at the base of the stems. It crinkles every time Puck stops or takes off from a red light.

His first stop is the Fabray's. Rumor has it that Quinn's douchebag dad had graciously accepted his daughter back into the fold once she was rid of her bastard kid. It's reinforced when Mrs. Fabray answers the door and stiffly tells him that Quinn is sleeping. Her pale, cool eyes stare a few moments too long at his mohawk, and Puck wonders if she knows who he is.

"Would you tell her that Puck stopped by and, uh, gave her these?" He thrusts one of the bouquets at her.

"Um – yes." Mrs. Fabray handles the roses delicately and with her nose slightly wrinkled, like he just handled her a dead rodent.

"Thanks," he says, walking away.

_

  
He feels like a grade-A tool ringing the bell at the Berry's with the roses in front of him, so he puts them behind his back. That makes him feel even dumber, so he's still shifting them around when Rachel opens the door.

"Noah," she says quietly. It's like a greeting and a question all at once.

It's not like he'd planned this out before twenty minutes ago, so he doesn't know what to say. She's probably just gotten home, she has no idea why he's standing on her doorstep, and something is choking Puck's speech so he just can't get the first word out.

So he just sticks out the flowers like _that_ moron from every bad boy/girl movie cliché in the history of forever, holding the stems carefully so as not to get stuck with a thorn and using his Jedi mind control to stop the petals from falling off in the space between his hand and hers.

"These are for you," he says simply.

Rachel blinks, and then smiles the brightest smile he's seen in maybe his whole life.

It's a start.

**end.**   



End file.
